


Pink-Tinted Pants

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Emotional Hurt, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt John Watson, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Talk, Sexual Repression, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a mistake anyone could make and accidentally incites John's rage. John manages to hit an emotional blow, and Sherlock's avoidance results in John getting injured. John is trying to make things right, and Sherlock is an awkward virgin.</p>
<p>Who knew that pink-tinted pants would have such consequences?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink-Tinted Pants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benedictsbottom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictsbottom/gifts).



> This is the last of three giveaway fics for the winners of the last giveaway draw, this one for [benedictsbottom](http://benedictsbottom.tumblr.com)
> 
> Sorry I didn't get around to posting it until now... I was in France with a faulty internet connection, and I wanted to make sure it uploaded properly. 
> 
> Also, I hope you like it, because I wrote it while surrounded by almost my entire extended family, who only have a vague idea of how much gay sex I actually write.

Sherlock looked down at the blood all over his hands in horror and shock unable to process what it all meant, even though he’d seen it happen. It was his fault. How unbelievably stupid he’d been. He hadn’t been thinking, which was why John was hurt, and he should have known better than to get sentiment involved.

If he didn’t care about what John said, this would never have happened.

He didn’t care about what Sally or Anderson said about him, or if anyone else thought he was more like a robot than a human being. But somehow, over the course of months, he’d come to value John’s opinion over any other.

Which was why they were in this situation. Sherlock, and his stupid hurt feelings.

Most people didn’t think Sherlock _had_ feelings to hurt. When it came to most people, they would have been right. He didn’t care at all about their opinion of him or if they said nasty things to him.

He didn’t know whether to be more hurt by what John had said to him, or by the fact John thought he could say things like that to Sherlock, and Sherlock wouldn’t be affected by them.

Sherlock was beginning to reconsider the decision to give John that much power over him. But it hadn’t been a conscious decision, so there wasn’t much to be done about it. Sherlock didn’t think he could undo it, now that he’d apparently decided the only one that had any influence over his heart was John.

Heart. Feelings. This is why Sherlock had tried to avoid all this.

And now John was hurt, and it was Sherlock’s fault.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brought him out of his fugue of self-recrimination, and he looked up to find Lestrade looking at him in concern.

“Are you alright?” Lestrade asked.

“None of this is mine,” Sherlock said numbly, meaning the blood.

“Let’s get you cleaned up then,” Lestrade said, herding Sherlock towards a waiting panda car.

Sherlock let Lestrade put him in the passenger seat without protest.

OOooOO

It had started because of laundry.

What a stupid way for a fight to start. And it wasn’t the usual type of fight they had either - usually it was John grumbling at him for not helping out with the laundry and then huffing and doing both of their laundry anyway.

No, this fight had started because Sherlock had tried to actually do the laundry for once.

It was just a silly mistake. Sherlock hadn’t meant to put in something red with the whites. It wasn’t even that it was sorted, he’d just put all the laundry in one machine. Who had the time and energy to sort laundry? It was a waste of time and a waste of water! 

He’d forgotten that he’d bought a new handkerchief and that he’d thrown it in his pile of dirty socks. He had brightly coloured socks, so the fact it had been a red didn’t stand out much. So he’d tossed the lot in with John’s hamper and washed it all.

He’d made a miscalculation.

It wasn’t even important things that he’d accidentally dyed pink. It was things like white socks and pants and vests - things that were worn underneath other clothes. It wasn’t even that dark a pink - it was barely noticeable.

Sherlock had foolishly assumed that it wouldn’t matter.

What was one slightly-pink vest when men these days could wear pink shirts and matching ties? 

It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did. Sherlock finished the wash and put all of John’s clothes back in the proper spot, assuming that John wouldn’t even notice. John couldn’t even tell the difference between cyan and teal. 

“SHERLOCK!”

Apparently he’d been wrong on that score.

John had marched down the stairs, fuming. Sherlock, involved in a new experiment, hadn’t even looked up. He’d forgotten about the accident already, but was reminded suddenly when John threw down a pair of pink-tinted pants on his worktop.

“What is that?” John had demanded, arms crossed.

“Your pants,” Sherlock had replied flatly. 

He hadn’t been trying to antagonize John, he’d just been stating fact. But John had seemed to think he was doing it on purpose.

“Yes, I can see they’re my pants. Why are they pink?”

“They’re not that pink.”

“They’re still pink. Sherlock, do you even think when you do these things? You’ve ruined a good chunk of my wardrobe!”

“No one cares if your pants are pink, John.”

“I care! And if I happen to maybe get a date, _she_ might care!” John had said angrily, voice getting louder as he spoke.

“I really don’t think she would,” Sherlock had said, because most women were likely sensible enough to realize it was an accident. Not only that, it was a funny accident when you thought about it. Anyway, pink was a perfectly nice colour.

“I don’t want pink undergarments, Sherlock. It says things about me!”

Sherlock had sighed then. Didn’t John realize that his misplaced sense of what masculine colouring was was based on the fact that a madman had decided to put pink triangles on gay people, and therefore society decided to change which colour belonged to which gender?

Gendered colour coding was a bit ridiculous.

Also, wearing the colour pink in no way made John any less masculine, nor did it demean him, unless he thought being a woman was somehow demeaning. Sherlock could argue about this for hours.

“Pink is a perfectly good colour, John.”

“Not on me! I don’t like it! And I’m not gay!”

“No one said you were, John.”

“Making my pants pink really suggests that you were!”

Sherlock had blinked at that. Where this leap in logic had come from was a mystery.

“Are you seriously suggesting that I was trying to tell you that you’re gay because I accidentally dyed your pants pink.”

“It was probably an experiment,” John had snapped. “Let’s see how far we can push John! I know! Let’s dye his pants pink and watch him react!”

“Not that this was an experiment, but had I been carrying one out, the results are interesting, and don’t speak well for confidence in your gender or sexual orientations.”

At this point, John had mostly lost coherence in his arguments and basically just gone on a long rant.

“Just because no one is willing to have sex with you means that the same goes for me!”

Sherlock had sucked in a breath at that.

Sex was a weird thing for Sherlock. He didn’t talk about it, and whenever the subject came up, he tended to avoid it. 

No one had ever touched Sherlock like that.

Sherlock lived like a monk, the Work taking precedence over everything else. He shunted all thoughts and urges that had to do with that away.

But that didn’t mean that he never felt like having sex. Just because he’d never done it before didn’t mean that he didn’t want. It was usually easy to ignore, fleeting moments where a passing stranger made something flutter in Sherlock’s gut.

It was a little harder to ignore when the root of said longing wandered around in your flat in just his pants or a towel, army fit and unselfconscious. What’s more, John actually liked Sherlock. All in all, Sherlock was pretty far gone on John Watson.

Not much to do about that. Sherlock had no idea how to carry out or even start a romantic relationship and John was steadfastly consistent with his sexual orientation. Occasionally, John would look at a fit man, but he never spared more than a glance, and he never looked at Sherlock like that. And what’s more, John never admitted to his attraction to men.

And then he’d gone and suggested that Sherlock was undesirable.

It shouldn’t have hurt. Sherlock knew people didn’t want to have sex with him and didn’t care much what they thought. But _John_ was the only person he would ever have really considered actually having sex with, even if it was only a fantasy.

Unexpectedly hurt, Sherlock had withdrawn after that.

Which brought them to the case, and the current situation.

OOooOO

Usually, Sherlock would never have been out on a drugs case, not with his history. Lestrade made sure to steer him clear of those, for which Sherlock was grateful, even if he never voiced it. But this one was different. This one involved a dead copper.

Even Lestrade was willing to put Sherlock on the line when it came to situations like this.

John had insisted on coming, especially when he realized that there were Class A drugs involved. To be honest, Sherlock hadn't wanted John to come. Usually, no fight with John made him feel that way, but this was different.

He was distracted the entire case, trying to avoid looking at or talking to John. Lestrade noticed, of course, but the case was more important.

Sherlock solved it.

Only just. 

And then someone had stabbed John, and Sherlock hadn't seen because he was so busy trying not to look at him.

After that, all Sherlock had been able to see was red. He hadn't even managed to figure out where the wound was so that he could apply pressure. He'd patted John down, and his hands were covered in blood immediately. Nothing had made sense after that.

"No," he'd said urgently, hands fluttering ineffectively. "No, you can't. I don't know what to do without you. Please."

A hot, copperly smell had filled his nostrils, and he hadn't been able to smell anything else since.

And now he was in hospital with no recollection of having got there, and there was an orange shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Someone had cleaned his hands off imperfectly. There was still blood under his nails and in the creases of his hands.

He hoped John didn't remember what he'd said.

Lestrade appeared and placed a warm cup in his hands. Sherlock drank automatically, and winced as the taste of burnt coffee hit his tongue. Lestrade made a face as well, and took a second swig of his own coffee.

"John's just getting patched up," Lestrade said. "It's not as bad as it looked."

"There was a lot of blood," Sherlock said.

"You've seen blood before, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "It wasn't all that much."

"Injuries?"

"Slash wounds to the upper arm and along his ribs. Not a stab, so no internal injuries. Think the one to his arm hit a vein."

So John was getting stitched up. He was alright.

He was alright.

Sherlock took a deep breath and drank more of his terrible coffee.

OOooOO

Sherlock felt all wrong waiting for John once he knew John would be okay. It wasn't sitting right in his stomach, but he couldn't quite figure out what was wrong. He couldn't _not_ wait for John, however, so he sat and waited, fidgeting and drinking more coffee.

When John finally appeared, he was moving gingerly, and Sherlock felt something in his gut clench unpleasantly. His arm was in a sling, as both injuries were on the same side, and Sherlock could tell that John was in more pain than he was letting on.

John stopped in front on him.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said stiffly, not looking him in the eye. "This is my fault. I should not have brought you along."

"You certainly should have brought me," John said. "If I hadn't come, it might have been you that was stabbed."

Sherlock thought it would have been much better if he had been hurt rather than John. His lips thinned, and he turned, walking ahead to the lift and waiting for John. They were silent all the way back to 221b, and Sherlock curled up on the couch without a word. He realized he was being unreasonable and that John was probably angry at him.

Mrs. Hudson came up, and Sherlock ignored what was going on behind him. She was probably doing what Sherlock should be doing – trying to make John more comfortable because he'd just been stabbed.

Sherlock must have fallen asleep on the couch, because in the next moment, he was waking up to the feeling of fingers in his hair. At first, Sherlock didn't know what was happening, because that was a completely novel experience for him. It was a good feeling, and Sherlock felt himself lean into the touch unconsciously before he realized what was happening.

"John," he said, rolling over to look up at him in confusion. "What...?"

John was pressed up against him on the couch, sitting with his back to Sherlock’s. Once Sherlock got turned around, he found John looking down at him with an indescribable look on his face.

"I'm sorry," John said, and Sherlock was confused. 

"For what?" Sherlock asked. "It was my fault you were hurt. I should have noticed what was going on before it came to that."

John's hand was still playing with Sherlock’s hair. "I noticed you were avoiding me, Sherlock. I'm sorry for what I said while we were arguing. It wasn't true."

"It is true," Sherlock said uncomfortably. "I was letting it affect me more than it should have."

"It isn't," John insisted. "Haven't you seen the way people look at you?"

"Aesthetics," Sherlock scoffed. "If they knew what I was really like, no one would want that anymore."

"They don't need to know what you're like to shag you."

Sherlock felt himself flush. "I would, though."

John paused at that. "You would."

"Yes, John, if I were ever to bother, I would need it to... mean something. Otherwise, there's no point, is there. Chemical pair-bonding. Why bother if there's no benefit?"

"Pleasure," John said, looking down at him. "That's a benefit."

"Dull," Sherlock said with a sigh, although his face heated.

"But you would though," John said. "Have sex with someone you care about."

Sherlock paused, then said, "Yes. I do have the desire to do so sometimes. I just ignore it."

John looked curious now, and Sherlock wished he would stop looking like that while having the current discussion.

"Have you felt that desire, recently?" John asked. "I could never tell."

"It was certainly obvious enough," Sherlock replied with a huff. "You just never thought to look for the signs in me before. You know my methods."

John looked at him another long moment, then said, "Your pupils are dilated right now."

Of course they were, John was close, and touching him. Instead, Sherlock said, "We're in low lighting."

John smiled, then asked, "Tea?" and got to his feet.

Nowhere in that conversation had John mentioned that Sherlock had essentially given himself away after John had been injured. He must not remember.

Sherlock tried to convince himself that was a good thing over the rise of disappointment in his belly.

OOooOO

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn't. Sherlock felt John watching him all the time, and he just knew it was because now that he was aware Sherlock felt desire, he was waiting to figure out who Sherlock felt it for.

Why did John need to be obsessed with this, of all things?

Of course, all the usual suspects didn't elicit any physical tells. He saw John watching him in the morgue while he was talking to Molly, and at NSY while he was with Lestrade. John even watched intently while he was in a heated argument with Sally, of all people.

John hadn't even considered himself.

Feeling a lump in his gut, Sherlock picked up his violin to play. Something fast and frantic leapt from the strings, and Sherlock wondered if anyone realized how much emotion he put into his playing. He dashed off a line or two for his hopeless desires, and then went on to play a lament for unrequited love.

For love was what it undoubtedly was.

A hand on his shoulder ceased his motion as he froze in mid-bow. He slowly lowered his instrument and turned to find John behind him, closer than usual. John smiled, and Sherlock felt the effects of it in his stomach and in the frantic whirring of his heart.

John's hand slid down his arm to his wrist, and it took far too long for him to realize John was taking his pulse.

"Your pupils are dilated again," John whispered. He didn't have to mention Sherlock’s rampaging pulse, because Sherlock could feel it in his throat. It had to be visible from this close.

"The violin," he said. "I always feel this way when playing."

John just smiled and went into the kitchen to start dinner.

OOooOO

John managed to catch him several more times, but Sherlock had a ready excuse each time. He didn't know why he was doing this – his past disappointment told Sherlock that he wanted to be caught. 

Not yet. He couldn't be caught yet.

He was putting this off. Was it because he was scared? He thought about the possible consequences of John knowing, and he couldn't come up with anything. An unknown.

He started an experiment – an easy one, because he was really trying to come up with an answer to his question and not anything to do with liver cells.

He noticed John enter the kitchen, but didn't bother to wonder why until he felt John's hands on his hips, pushing him backward gently, but firmly. His back came up against the fridge, and he felt John's hands on his goggles, pushing them up to his forehead.

"Your pupils –" John murmured, and his hand was flat over Sherlock's chest, measuring the beats of his racing heart. "Are dilated."

"I –" Sherlock said, but couldn't come up with any excuse this time.

All he could hear was the pounding of his pulse in his ear as John carefully fitted their mouths together. He gasped a little when their lips made contact. It was warm, and surprisingly soft. There was a little scrape of stubble where John had missed a tiny patch while shaving. John drew back, and their breath mixed between them.

Sherlock didn't bother asking why, because he supposed he'd been fairly obvious.

John, on the other hand...

"I heard you," John said against his mouth.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against John's.

"You don't have to do without me, you know," John said. "I'm here."

"John," Sherlock said helplessly, and he sounded so desperate, it was embarrassing.

"Shhh," John whispered, and kissed him lightly, just a brush of lips and warm breath. "It's okay, Sherlock. It's fine, now."

Sherlock made an aborted movement, not knowing whether he was allowed to try and kiss John back. John smiled and leaned up, one hand coming up to curl in the hair behind his ear. Sherlock felt his heart fluttering madly as John made contact again.

His face must have been terribly flushed when John eventually drew away.

"Come on then, love," John said, and stepped back.

And Sherlock realized that he was still wearing gloves and goggles from his experiment. John grinned, and reached up to remove the goggles, and Sherlock fumbled with the gloves. He felt all wrong-footed, not knowing what one did, or how to proceed.

John pulled him over to the couch and dragged Sherlock into his arms. At first, Sherlock tensed up, unused to being this close to another human body – at least one that was alive. But it was John, who was warm, and smelled of home and Earl Grey tea. He took several deep breaths and relaxed into John's embrace.

The words slipped out of him like they were the easiest thing to say in the world.

"I love you."

"I know. I love you, too."

And John kissed him. 

OOooOO

Kissing was new, and Sherlock supposed he must have been very bad at it when they started out. He just let John lead them, as Sherlock's only practical experience was when he was trying to get information from a suspect. Sherlock was terrible at kissing.

John was brilliant at it.

Sherlock must be picking up some techniques, because John didn't seem to mind kissing him. He always started off slowly, letting Sherlock adjust before sinking in fully. Sherlock nearly had a heart attack the first time tongue was introduced. He made a strange sound in the back of his throat, and John pulled away.

"Alright?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling flushed. "Just surprised is all."

"Should I give you some warning if I'm trying something new then?"

"Not necessary," Sherlock replied. "Besides, it's not new for you."

John took him at his word, so the first time he felt the scrape of teeth along the length of his neck, Sherlock made a strangled noise, and his knees wobbled. The feeling sent tremors through his whole body, and he clutched at John's arms.

"Okay?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded, unable to vocalize his assent.

Even with warning of what was coming, Sherlock couldn't help the noises he made as John sucked marks into his skin. His knees trembled again, and John steered him toward the couch. He collapsed on it gratefully, only to have John straddle his body and tease the skin of his neck with biting kisses. Sherlock squirmed, hands coming up to clutch at John's jumper.

Later, when John had finished, they rushed out to a crime scene.

Sherlock would never admit to purposefully "forgetting" his scarf, but the result was that the marks John had left all along his throat were clearly visible. They earned him several strange looks from Lestrade during the course of the investigation.

"Oi, who's the Freak been necking with?" Sally asked loudly, as they were leaving.

Trust Sally to be indelicate.

And then, John slipped his hand into Sherlock's, twining their fingers together. Sherlock flushed, pleased, and shot a look at Sally. Sally looked shocked, and behind her, Lestrade just shrugged. 

"About time," he called after them, and Sherlock smiled.

OOooOO

"I'm going to touch you," John said.

"I said you didn't have to warn me," Sherlock replied.

"I thought if you knew, it wouldn't take you by surprise," John said reasonably.

John had insisted on them watching some silly game show, a completely pointless one as far as he was concerned, but then ignored it in favour of kissing Sherlock. Sherlock was on board with this plan, and then John had said that.

It didn't help.

Sherlock was still trembling with excitement now that he knew what was happening. John's hands stroked down his sides, and Sherlock watched, unable to move, as John found the hem of his shirt and burrowed underneath it. Warm hands on his skin made him whimper, and he shoved a hand over his mouth.

"Shhh, it's alright," John said, hands on his ribs. "You can make all the noise you like."

"But you haven't even touched anything interesting yet," Sherlock protested in embarrassment.

In response to that, John's left thumb found his right nipple and rubbed gently. Sherlock writhed, back arching as John rucked his t-shirt up. His skin felt hot and tight all over, and he whined as John's lips closed over the stiff little nub. He couldn't think, all he could do was feel, as John played his body like an instrument. 

John paused to pull the t-shirt up and over Sherlock's head. Sherlock caught his breath, watching as John pulled his jumper off in one smooth motion. How could he seem so unaffected when it was all Sherlock could do to breathe?

John leaned over, and Sherlock lifted his mouth to meet John's. John's chest pressed against his, and Sherlock was fascinated as John's chest hair prickled against his skin. John's hands were on his hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the sensitive skin next to his hipbones.

"Sherlock?" John said raggedly into his ear. Maybe he wasn't as unaffected as Sherlock had assumed.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, surprisingly coherent.

"I'm going to touch you again."

Sherlock smiled, and whispered, "You're already touching me."

"No, I'm going to touch you here."

John's hand moved to his knee, then slid up the inside of his thigh. Sherlock gasped and shivered, his gut erupting in butterflies. Feeling very daring, he spread his knees wider in invitation. Is this how people normally felt when engaging in sexual activity? He wasn't sure his heart could take it.

He hadn't even been aware he'd gotten an erection, but he was certainly aware of it now. He made a desperate noise, and his hips pressed up against his will as John's hand moved up to cup his aching groin.

"Christ," he heard John say.

"John," Sherlock gasped, hands clutching at John's back.

John's hand traveled upward until he found the waistband of his pyjamas, slipping underneath. Sherlock bucked his hips again, and John closed his hand around the length of his erection, stroking firmly. Sherlock cried out raggedly, hips shuddering. John kissed his collarbone and his shoulder as he pumped his fist.

Sherlock was flooded with heat and languid pleasure. It was overwhelmingly intense, and all he could do was grab onto the nearest part of John and hold on.

"Shhh, you're alright," John murmured in his ear. "God, look at you. You're gorgeous."

Sherlock, already wracked with pleasure, couldn't believe how much a simple compliment could rachet it up to another level. He couldn't possibly be more vocal, but somehow, John must have realized.

"Beautiful," John said, stroking one flushed cheekbone. "You're my good lad, aren't you, Sherlock? That's it. Will you come for me? Come on, you can do it. Come for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock spasmed abruptly, and suddenly, he was spilling himself all over John's hand and his pyjama bottoms, wailing aloud. His vision blanked momentarily, and his ears buzzed.

When Sherlock came back to himself, John had him in his lap, arms around his shoulders. Sherlock was still trembling a little, and John was whispering softly in his ear.

"That was gorgeous, sweetheart," he said. "So beautiful."

Slowly, Sherlock became aware that John was still hard, and his erection was digging into Sherlock's back. He shifted in John's arms, and John hissed. Smiling, Sherlock did it again, harder.

"Sherlock!" John protested, but laughed as Sherlock squirmed in his arms, deliberately grinding down on John's thick cock.

"You want me," Sherlock hummed languidly.

"I do," John said with a gasp. "But you just came, give it a minute."

Sherlock slid right out of John's lap and onto the floor between his legs. John's trousers looked painfully tented, and Sherlock's fingers went for the zip. John didn't protest a second time, lifting his hips so that Sherlock could shimmy his pants and trousers down.

Sherlock had never touched anyone with the intention of giving pleasure, but it seemed simple enough. He fit his hand around John's cock and stroked. It was a bit awkward at this angle, but John's cock was pleasingly thick and warm in his palm. Fascinated, Sherlock watched as little beads of precome collected in the slit of his cock.

"Oh," John gasped from above him.

He rubbed his thumb through the gathered moisture, and John's hips bucked up. He recalled his own pleasure-fueled reactions from earlier and concluded that must be good. He circled his thumb over the head of John's cock again, its path made smooth and easy by the fact that John was leaking even more.

Still fascinated, Sherlock leaned forward and licked at the slit of John's cock, wiggling his tongue to try and coax out more liquid. It was bitter and salty, and for some reason, having tasted John's cock once, he wanted to try even more. He remembered reading a magazine once, some women's magazine that had given advice about how to give good fellatio. It hadn't quite used those terms, but Sherlock remembered that it said something about making sure teeth didn't enter the equation.

John whined from above him as he carefully fit his mouth around the head of John's cock and explored it with his tongue. There was a ridge, and a textured patch just under the head that he made sure to run the tip of his tongue over.

He hoped he was doing this right.

He raised his eyes and was stunned to find that John was panting, chest heaving, sweat already forming on his hairline. His fists were clutched around the fabric of the sofa, and when he realized Sherlock was looking at him, he gazed right back, enchanted. Sherlock felt himself flush. He had done that, somehow.

Sherlock reached out, took one of John's hands in his, and directed it toward the back of his head. Yes, that was good. John's fingers buried themselves in his hair, and the pull on his scalp sent shivers racing down his spine.

He resumed his actions, adding in suction tentatively, as he had no idea how much was too much in this situation. John swore loudly and tried to buck up into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock held his hip down with one hand, and guided John's cock with the other.

He pulled off of John with an embarrassingly wet popping noise and asked, "Okay?"

"Christ, Sherlock," John gasped. "Where did you learn how to give head?"

"A ladies mag," admitted Sherlock, with a little lick to John's slit.

"Fuck," John concluded.

Pleased with this result, Sherlock resumed his activity, using John's reactions to gauge which of his movements were the most pleasurable.

Suddenly, John was babbling and pulling on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock felt John seem to swell against his tongue, and suddenly his mouth was flooded with the sharp, tangy taste of semen. Sherlock had no choice but to swallow some of it or be choked, but he managed to wipe the rest off his chin with John's discarded jumper.

"Tried to warn you," John mumbled.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, resting his head against John's thigh.

They sat there for a little while, John carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock squirmed a bit as he realized that he was aroused again. John noticed and grinned.

"Come on, we can take care of that in the shower," he said, pulling Sherlock up.

Sherlock was going to say something, but immediately forgot what it was as John kissed him messily, teasing Sherlock until he gave in and let John snog him properly. He felt a bit ridiculous, with his soaked trousers halfway down around his knees, but then John helped him out of them.

He padded naked through the flat, leaving his clothes all over the living room, and John got the shower going.

As Sherlock was removing the last of John's clothes, he realized he was holding a pair of John's pink-tinted pants.

"You know, I don't care if your pants are pink, right John?" Sherlock said, smiling a little.

"Shut it," John groused, flushing.

"And you know, the thing you did just now, more than a little bit gay –"

"Oh, stop," John said, but grinned. "Now get in the shower."

Sherlock did.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com)


End file.
